An Awful Lot Like Love
by Padfoot Reincarnated
Summary: Draco Malfoy's grocery shopping is interrupted by a lonely Harry Potter. And, as they soon discover, loneliness can warp your sense of time and reason. HD slash.


**I do not own Harry Potter. Or Draco Malfoy, for that matter. I just love the pairing. And this is slash, two men in a romantic relationship, so if that bothers you, stay away. Yeah. That's it. Oh, and this gets fairly fluffy, so if you hate _that_, you might not like this so much.**

Falling in love with Harry Potter was not _exactly _on Draco Malfoy's Sixth year to-do-list. To put it mildly.

Perhaps it was inevitable that after six years of watching Potter, he would fall in love with him the second he stopped.

It wasn't something big, it wasn't something simple. It couldn't be boiled down to some sickeningly sweet phrase like, "I love him because he is brave," or "because he is Harry." What it was—"Because he didn't want me killed, because of that time he came to Potions with a milk moustasche because he's so stubborn, because he caught the snitch against Ravenclaw, because he's more loyal to Dumbledore than I could be to anyone."

Or perhaps, in the end, it really _was_ as simple as the fact that he was Harry Potter.

Whatever it was, like all inevitable things, it eventually came to pass.

This, Draco reflected, made it awkward when he spotted Harry a few aisles down in the Muggle department store he was currently shopping in.

Draco was pleasantly minding his own business, standing in at the front of the condiments aisle, when, out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a very familiar head of messy black hair. Harry Potter was on the pasta aisle.

Hmm. That might pose a problem.

_Must…get…out_.

Draco's first, altogether (in his opinion) sensible decision was to panic. He grabbed his cart and hurtled towards the front of the store. It was only a few meters away, sliding glass doors beckoning.

Unfortunately, he hadn't remembered to pay.

Draco stopped short as the security alarms went off and looked frantically around the store, positively terrified. The two nearest clerks rolled their eyes and began plodding towards him. And Harry Potter whirled around and saw him, too.

Draco sagged. If Potter had seen him, there was no point anymore. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Must've forgotten to pay." They attempted to corral him towards the checkout line, but he wasn't interested, anymore. He'd go down the street to buy his things; it was more expensive, but there was no way in hell he was doing his shopping at the same place as _Harry Potter_.

He slipped outside, and his eyes began to water from the brightness of the sunlight. It was an unusually hot August, and Draco had been sunburned once already since school had ended.

"Malfoy?" asked a voice. There were purple spots dancing in front of his eyes, but even so, Draco recognized Potter's voice. "What are _you_ doing here?"

Draco rotated slowly to face Potter. He was laden down with shopping bags, and his face was red and sweaty. "What are _you_ doing here?" was Draco's accusatory answer.

Draco's vision had cleared enough for him to see the annoyed expression that passed across Potter's face. "Shopping," he said shortly. "But that's not important. Malfoy—in Muggle London! Everybody's looking for you."

"And that should answer your question," Draco said simply. "Now if you'll excuse me, _Potter_, I have places to be." He turned to go, but Potter's hand on his shoulder brought him to a dead halt. He nearly stopped breathing, but regained his composure long enough to turn back around and brush the hand away.

Potter looked at him earnestly and wrung his fingers around his shopping bags. "Malfoy," he said. "I've heard through—people—that you haven't been helping Voldemort."

Draco squinted and avoided the question. "Spies, you mean," he said dully.

Potter looked almost relieved that he'd understood so quickly. "Yeah," he confirmed. "And also—the Death Eaters are looking for you. To kill you."

_My father_, Draco thought briefly. "Aren't you? Don't you want to kill me?" he asked instead.

Harry Potter laughed. "You're still alive, aren't you?"

Draco snorted. "What's your point, Potter?"

Potter turned, if possible, even redder. "Dumbledore wanted to help you," he said. "And I want to do what he wanted."

Draco was suspicious. "What do I have to do?"

Potter opened his mouth to say something, but cut himself off. He paused. "Nothing," he said. "Not if you don't want to."

Draco wasn't sure he believed him. And his instinct was to say no. But a picture came into his head of him as he must appear to anyone passing by. A seventeen-year-old _kid_,standing outside a grocery store in tennis shoes with holes in them and mismatched socks, a burned red face and uncombed blond hair. He thought of the flat he would go home to: grey and dirty, with a creaky floor and a smudged window and the smell of cats.

"Okay," he said slowly.

Potter grinned, a relieved smile. "We can walk to my apartment from here," he said. "It's just a few blocks."

The walk was quiet; neither of them had anything to say to each other. Potter breathed heavily from the strain of carrying his heavy bags. Draco considered offering to help, but decided against it—Potter hadn't asked, so Draco wouldn't offer.

Potter let himself in with a key and a dozen muttered spells. Draco, not knowing what else to do, followed.

The flat was cleaner than Draco's, and newer, though not considerably larger. It was sunny; the curtains and windows were open, and a pleasant breeze drifted into the kitchen, where he and Potter had stopped. The counter tops were some kind of wood, and the wallpaper was an old-fashioned pattern; deep red roses on yellow and white diamonds.

Draco shuffled his feet and coughed slightly. Potter turned around from the refrigerator, where he had been busy putting groceries away. "Yeah?" he asks, not unkindly.

"What do you want me to do?" Draco asked.

Potter hesitated. "There's a spare bedroom at the end of the hall by the front porch," he said finally. "You can get settled in there, if you want."

Draco wandered down the hall. The walls were devoid of pictures or anything to indicate that this was Harry Potter's home.

The guest bedroom was small, taken up almost entirely by mismatched furniture. There was a cast-iron bed and a dresser that was cracked down the side. There was a hairbrush on the ground in the corner, and a book on the floor.

Draco didn't have anything to unpack. He collapsed onto the bed face down, and slept uneasily.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

When he woke up, it was dark, and the breeze from the open window had turned cold. There was creeping in through the cracks of the doorway, and Draco's fingers tightened on the pillow. He hadn't even realized he was tired.

He didn't know how exactly he would be safer in Potter's flat than at his own. And maybe Potter didn't, either. All the same, it was comforting to be with another person, someone his own age, for once. He felt raw around the edges from loneliness, and if he'd been just a little bit younger perhaps he would have cried from the overwhelming comfort and safety of everything.

He crept out of the room, trying to make as little noise as possible, and headed down the hall. He stopped in front of the kitchen. Potter was hunched over the table, staring at some old book and rubbing his temples in frustration. When he heard Draco, he leapt to his feet and brushed his hair back from his face. His glasses hung crookedly on his nose.

"Ah, hello," he said awkwardly. "Do you need something to eat?"

Draco shook his head mutely, and without waiting for an invitation, pulled out the chair beside Potter, and sank into it without his usual easy grace.

"What are you reading?" he asked. It was strange being so—_civil_—with Potter. He felt no enmity towards him, not anymore, and there really wasn't any reason to keep fighting. But the habit remained, and he couldn't help but feel that it was all a strange dream.

Potter sighed. "I'm _trying_ to read a book about some advanced Transfiguration, but I can hardly understand a word of it. I wish Hermione was here." He said it with a challenge in his voice and face; daring Draco to say something—_Mudblood, know-it-all, worthless, dirty._

He ignored it. "I wish I had Crabbe and Goyle," he said instead.

Potter smiled hesitantly. "Ron and Hermione wanted to come with me," he said. "I told them it wasn't safe—I can't—I don't want them to get hurt."

Draco sat stiffly in place. Potter sounded as ragged as he felt; and Draco loved him for it, no matter how hard he tried not to.

"You won't have to stay here for long," Potter said. "I've contacted some people, and they're going to help you. They're getting things arranged as fast as they can."

Draco felt a bubble of sadness in his throat. He didn't _want_ to leave.

"You'll be safe," Potter said tiredly. "But—if you ever change your mind, if you want to help us—well, you could probably be useful."

Something snapped. Draco was tired of being cautious, of being afraid and of not being sure. He felt as though he was leaping into a great chasm. He touched Harry's hand. "I know what I want to do," he said. "I want to help."

Potter blinked behind his glasses. "Really?" he asked, and sounded stunned. His cheeks were pink, but he didn't try to move away from Draco's hand.

Draco laughed, an outpouring of relief. He was almost giddy. "Yes, I'm sure," he said.

Potter was beaming. And Draco did something he would not have done in almost any circumstances. But Potter was just as alone as he was, and Draco couldn't help loving him, and if he got a fist in the mouth for his actions: well, that was life, sometimes, and he could fight back.

He kissed Harry Potter, full on the mouth.

Potter gasped and pushed him away. "Malfoy?" he asked incredulously.

"I'm sorry," said Draco.

Potter turned bright red, appeared to gather his courage, and touched Draco's cheek. His hands were warm.

"It's okay," he said, and Draco Malfoy found himself being kissed by Harry Potter.

He'd fought with him since they were boys, he'd loved him for a year, he wanted to know every bit of him. But now, Draco wanted to be gentle. It was Harry Potter; and maybe there had always been something bubbling under the surface between them, or maybe this was just the result of being alone for too long and maybe they were both a little crazy.

He didn't want to break this. Fresh and fragile, a newborn feeling in his chest.

"I don't know what's gotten into me," said Potter—_Harry_—breathlessly.

And maybe he never would. But from Draco's perspective, it felt an awful lot like love.

**Well, you made it this far! Might as well review. It'd make my day--besides I have LOTS of chocolate that I am waiting to give out to reviewers hint hint**


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